The Song of Time
by FallenNephilim
Summary: -SuperWhoLock- When Sherlock was twelve he met a man - a madman in a blue box. Now, twenty three years later, that man has returned, and with him he's brought things Sherlock never believed to be real.
1. Memories

_"I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high."_

_- 'Jane Eyre'_

_Charlotte Brontë_

X X X

It was another sleepless night.

Sherlock had been getting many such nights lately, spent staring out the window at nothing in particular; eyes wide awake and unblinking. He wasn't tired. And besides, how was he supposed to sleep when his mind always kept him awake with its wonderful thoughts and ideas? It was a perfect, beautiful distraction.

From everything.

The window seat he was currently lounging on was old, decorated with an ugly feather cushion that had gone down through the generations; a cushion that was outlined by dirty lace, a hideous flowery pattern, and stains that Sherlock didn't really want to think about. Mycroft often rubbed it in, also. The fact that he got a new leather cushion for the window seat in his room, and Sherlock got the old one. Then again, Sherlock was only twelve, and Mycroft was the eldest, therefore he got the best of everything.

Honestly, though, Sherlock didn't really care. The cushion served its purpose, and that was enough for him.

He was distracted from his thoughts just then, though, as a strange sound from behind him caught his attention. A strong wind suddenly kicked up, blowing things across the room, and Sherlock turned, his gray-green eyes widening as he saw something that defied all logic and rationality literally _materializing_ in front of him.

Sherlock stared, breath hitching in his throat, at a large blue box, complete with a door and a sign that read _'Police Public Call Box'_ at the top. And, in his moment of hesitation, he could only stand there in shock while desperately trying to figure out what was going on, what this box was, and how it had appeared in his room.

Then the door opened.

Sherlock jumped back, wary, and steeled himself, determined to be ready for whatever came out of the impossible box, no matter what it was or whether or not it disproved all science and reality.

What he did not expect was for a man to emerge.

He was a rather normal-looking man, by all respects. Well, a bit strange, yes, but still nothing that seemed particularly extraordinary. The man had messy brown hair and scruffy features that told Sherlock he was a man who was in constant travel and cared very little for his appearances, and he wore a brown pinstripe suit with a long tan coat over it complete with a pair of bright red converse on his feet. All this offset something and made Sherlock realize that – despite how inconspicuous this man seemed at first glance – it was wrong. All of it, everything about him was wrong.

"Oh, hello." The man seemed to notice him for the first time just then, and he gave Sherlock friendly smile. "Sorry, but where am I?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "My bedroom."

"Oh?" The man bounded out of the impossible box, "That's new. How'd that come about? I was really only trying to land in the middle of London, near that old church, on a Tuesday in the year 2012. It is Tuesday, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered slowly, confused and honestly a bit unnerved by this man. He was British, though. That was something.

"And what year is it?"

"1989."

The man's eyes widened. "1989? Really? I'm off by twenty three years? I've never done that before either. How is that possible? I know I set the coordinates right." He put a hand on the impossible box, stroking the blue wood lovingly. "Did you bring me here for a reason, dear?"

Sherlock stared. "Who are you?"

"Me?" The man turned, his eyes locking with Sherlock's, and he smiled again, "I'm the Doctor, and you?"

Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, for he was too lost in the man's – the _Doctor's_ – eyes. Honey-brown and kind, they were wide with wonder and a childish joy normally attributed to ones of a lesser age. And yet there was something else there, underneath what you would see only at first glance; something elusive, secret, and terrifying.

And old, so very old.

"You . . ." Sherlock blinked a few times, willing himself to look away. "_Who are you?_"

"I already said; I'm the Doctor."

"And what sort of a name is that?"

"It's my name, and what's yours?"

Sherlock hesitated just a moment before answering, "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh?" The Doctor grinned, his eyes twinkling. "That's a wonderful name, Sherlock Holmes. It's so mysterious and interesting, like something from a fairy tale or a mystery novel."

"What is that thing?" Sherlock interrupted, wanting to distract the Doctor from his ramblings.

"What thing?"

Sherlock pointed at the impossible box, still wary and unsure about the whole situation.

"Oh, that's the TARDIS."

"The . . . what?"

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space," the Doctor said.

Sherlock made a face, obviously not convinced, "Are you saying it's a time machine?"

"Yes, but . . ." The Doctor seemed confused, "How did you know that?"

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space?" Sherlock scoffed, "I'm not an idiot; I know what that means."

The Doctor suddenly pulled something out of his inside coat pocket, something silver with a blue tip, and he flashed it at Sherlock. "How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Quite smart for a twelve-year-old." The Doctor said, staring at the strange silver device. He paused, again glancing at Sherlock, and for just a moment Sherlock glimpsed something else in his eyes; something hidden even deeper than the ancient secret he kept locked away so far beneath everything else. But before he could focus and figure out what it was, the Doctor looked away and the moment was gone.

A sudden beeping sound reached their ears and the Doctor spun around, his eyes going wide once more with exaggerated surprise as he bounded back over to the TARDIS.

"No, no, no. How is this possible? You shouldn't be doing this, you _can't_ be doing this." He opened the door, launching himself inside but stopping for just a moment to turn back to face the young boy watching him intently. "Sorry to have to cut this short, Sherlock Holmes, but I have to go. It's relocating again, and I have no idea whatsoever where I could end up." A grin found its way to the Doctor's face, then, and he saluted Sherlock, "But that's the fun part, isn't it? _Allons-y!_"

He whooped loudly then, closing the door of the box behind him, and with a whoosh and a strange, almost screeching sound, the TARDIS had gone as if it were never there.

Sherlock stood there for moments afterwards, staring at the place the impossible box had stood, and came to a sudden decision to never tell anyone of what he'd just seen. He could not. They'd never believe him; they'd just think he was crazy.

So, best just to keep it a secret.

X X X

_Twenty three years later . . ._

The woman in front of Sherlock was hideous, and not just in outward appearances. Everything about her grated on his nerves, and it was all he could do to not grind as he teeth as he sat there, watching her steadily.

". . . And I was sure I heard a woman's voice on the other end," she was saying as she pursed her lips, placing further emphasis on the particularly horrid shade of red lipstick she'd chosen to clash terribly with her outfit. "I just don't have any way to be sure."

John Watson, Sherlock's partner and the closest thing he had to a friend, stood just behind the chair Sherlock was reclining in, relaxed as he fell into his routine. The good doctor was listening intently and urging the woman – Patricia Earhart was her name – to continue on whenever she paused, determined to gather some good evidence, and maybe even see something Sherlock had missed.

Sherlock, however, wasn't paying much attention to what she was saying, he merely leaned back and steepled his fingers together, resisting the urge to look away from Patricia in all her repulsiveness. It was horribly terrifying, however, for Sherlock to also suddenly realize that she was actually trying to sucker up to him (of all people) which also accurately revealed what a horrid sycophant she was; further dirtying the already considerably large pool of rubbish that was her personality.

And finally, Sherlock decided that he'd had enough.

"Of course your husband is cheating on you," He said suddenly, cutting Patricia off mid-sentence.

Patricia stared at him, "I'm sorry, _what?_"

Sherlock shook his head, "Honestly, how can you people live with yourselves sometimes? These things are so often right in front of your face, and it's rather disappointing how easily you're fooled. _Your husband is cheating on you._ It's obvious."

Patricia stood, threw Sherlock a deadly glare, and then turned and left, her stomps echoing through the flat all the way down the stairs and out the door until it slammed shut behind her.

It only took a moment for John to turn on him. "You know, you could've been a bit kinder about that, Sherlock. She came to you for help, not to have her fears thrown in her face like that."

Sherlock massaged his temples, "I don't really care about that, John. I need a case, and that's all that matters right now; an actual case, too. Not some ridiculously easy domestic inquiry that I can solve in less than a minute. I swear, if I don't get one soon, I'm going to go mad."

_You already are,_ John thought mutinously, but of course he didn't say it out loud. Instead he said, "You need a hobby, Sherlock; something to give you a break from your life as a consulting detective."

"I do, John. You know what I do in my spare time."

"Chemistry and all that experimentation you do on heads and thumbs and whatnot is the exact opposite of what I'm talking about."

"Well, I have my violin," Sherlock said.

"You only ever play it when you're thinking about a case, Sherlock. I mean an _actual hobby_ to get you away from all that."

"And what would you suggest, then, doctor?"

"Well, I read in my spare time . . . or I write in my blog, and that sort of acts like a journal, so that's nice. Maybe you could so something like that?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes, before he said, "I used to keep journals when I was a child . . ."

"Oh?" John looked surprised. "Then maybe you could go look over some of those. Reminisce and all that; it might be good for you and it might give you some ideas, too."

"Maybe . . ." Sherlock murmured, lost in his thoughts again.

John stood there a moment longer, feeling awkward and wondering if Sherlock was going to say anything more. Finally, though, he decided that the consulting detective was too far gone in his thoughts to respond, so he decided he might as well go on a walk and give him some time to think. Slipping on his coat, John left the flat quickly, calling out a friendly goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as he did, and then the building was silent once more.

Moments later Sherlock got to his feet and went to his room, completely oblivious to John's sudden absence as he opened his closet and maneuvered around to the back.

Ah, there it was.

A cardboard box, filled to the brim with his old journals and notebooks. Sherlock had never been one for sentiment, but for some reason he'd always kept these journals. The only things left from his childhood; they'd been left gathering dust in the back of his closets through the years, so maybe it was time they finally fulfilled their purpose.

Grabbing the box, he took it over and sat cross-legged on his bed with it next to him. A cloud of dust spiraled through the air when he pulled the lid off, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the contents. The journals inside it were all basically the same size and shape, but with a different one for each year, and they were each marked with his signature on the top right corner of the cover, too – well, his signature from his childhood.

Oh, what memories.

He picked up on marked _1988 _and stared at it for a moment. He'd been eleven then. There wasn't much in the journal itself, though. Sherlock remembered why; that was the year he spent at a boarding school out in Westchester, and it had been a horrible year so he hadn't written much.

He hadn't wanted to remember.

The next one was from 1989. That was when he'd been twelve, and his mother had decided to bring him back from the boarding school and have him tutored at home until he made it to University. That had been a better year. Sherlock flipped through a few pages, just skimming over the entries, but froze suddenly as he read one particular entry from that year . . .

One that brought back memories he'd buried deep down inside of him.

_Entry, May 23, 1989_

_I'm not entirely sure how to write this down._

_I met a man today. But he was no ordinary man, no. He was a very strange man who called himself 'the Doctor' and with him he had this little blue box; an impossible box that appeared and disappeared and actually flew._

_And then there was something about his eyes . . . they were an old that went beyond ancient, and yet he himself seemed so very young. And the way he talked, it was like he was from another time. He asked me what year it was, and then he said something about being twenty or so years off his target. And I know it wasn't a dream, considering the state of my room. But that wouldn't be proof enough for others. So I won't tell them. It'll just be my secret._

_And, maybe one day, the Doctor will come back._

Sherlock stared at the page a moment, wondering how on earth he could've forgotten about the Doctor. He'd never returned of course, but Sherlock had always believed he would. And even now, so many years later, when the child that he'd been had disappeared into dust, there was still that old hope down there at the bottom of his stomach – the hope that the Doctor would return some day and Sherlock would get to see him again.

And oh, that thought alone excited him beyond all measure.

The sound of the door to the flat opening suddenly startled him from his thoughts, and then the familiar sound of John stomping up the stairs reached him as the good doctor yelled, "Sherlock!"

The consulting detective shut the journal from 1989 with a snap, putting it and the others he'd pulled out back in the box and sliding the lid on just as John entered the room.

"Sherlock, its Lestrade." John handed him the phone, "You've got a case."

"Wonderful!" Sherlock got to his feet and snatched the phone, "What is it, Lestrade?"

_"I'm not even sure, that's why I called you." _Lestrade sighed, sounding exhausted, _"This one is all kinds of strange."_

Sherlock's eyes widened, their color shining the light blue they did when he was excited. He grabbed his coat and scarf, grinning manically. "Where are you, Lestrade?"

X X X

Gruesome.

That was the only way to adequately describe the crime scene that Lestrade had directed Sherlock and John to. There was blood everywhere; splattered across the walls of the alleyway, dripping from the dumpster off to the side, and still draining from the body that was torn up beyond recognition.

From what Lestrade had told Sherlock so far, they weren't even entirely sure if the victim was male or female.

John was having trouble looking at it, though, Sherlock could tell. In all that John had seen during his time as a soldier – all the blood, death, and violence – he'd never seen anything as horrible as this. And Sherlock, for once, seemed to understand that while John didn't want to be there, he also didn't want to just go walk off and look like a sodding pansy in front of half of the Scotland Yard police force. So, wanting to give him an excuse, Sherlock told him to go hold the cab.

And the good doctor did so willingly, thanking Sherlock under his breath as he did.

Lestrade, realizing what had happened, glanced at Sherlock in surprise. "That was . . . that was actually really kind of you."

"I do have the ability to be kind occasionally, Lestrade." Sherlock replied.

The DI's eyebrows shot up. "I think Doctor Watson is getting to you, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him then, instead opting for bending down to examine the mutilated corpse. He noted as he did, though, that Lestrade was having trouble actually looking at it straight-on as well. He supposed that was a normal reaction, though.

"Female," Sherlock said after a few moments.

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded. "Her fingernails – not entirely noticeable, but they're freshly manicured; french tips. Very nicely done and, from what I can tell, expensive. Also, the slight curvature of her hips is still a bit noticeable, even though most of her torso is torn up. And her shoes tell us a lot as well."

"She's not wearing any shoes," Lestrade said.

"And yet you're referring to her as 'she' already, Detective Inspector, so you must believe me."

Lestrade sighed, "Just get on with it, Sherlock."

"Really, all you have to do is take a look at the shape her feet are in. They might be a bit mangled, yes, but it's still there enough to be gathered as data, because only a woman obsessed with fashion enough to get a ridiculously expensive manicure would wear heels that squeezed her feet like that. Isn't there some sort of saying for that? The price women pay for fashion, or something or another? Yes, use that as a reference."

"Alright, then," Lestrade looked sort of like a kicked puppy. "What can you tell us about the murderer?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, and then he said, "Teeth."

Lestrade blinked, "_Teeth?_"

"Yes," Sherlock frowned, "Either the killer is some sort of rabid animal let loose in the streets of London, or it's someone with very sharp teeth; someone who tore off this woman's skin piece-by-piece until she was reduced to this."

Lestrade looked a bit pale, "But neither of those seem very likely."

Sherlock's eyes darkened, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"Fine, then. Do you know which it is? Animal or human?"

Sherlock straightened and shoved his hands in his pocket, "Not yet. And it's dangerous to come to a conclusion now when I have so little data. I have a few ideas, nothing more." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, "Good day, Inspector. I will call you when I know more."

And then he was off, gone before Lestrade could say anything more. But once he'd gone the DI couldn't resist one more glance at the mangled corpse at his feet, even though he regretted it as soon as he did.

_Teeth._

Lestrade shuddered, he didn't like this.


	2. Time

_"In youth have I known one with whom the Earth_

_In secret communing held – as he with it,_

_In day light, and in beauty, from his birth:_

_Whose fervid, flick'ring torch of life was lit_

_From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth_

_A passionate light – such for his spirit was fit –_

_And yet that spirit knew – not in the hour_

_Of its own fervor – what had o'er it power."_

_- 'Stanzas I'_

_Edgar Allan Poe_

X X X

The TARDIS.

Big and little at the same time, brand new and ancient and the bluest blue ever, and the Doctor couldn't help but smile at it every time he turned to close the door behind him. He loved the TARDIS, inside and out, for it had become more than his home; it had become sort of the icon of his very existence.

And right now he had no idea what it was doing.

"Oh, okay." The Doctor emerged from the TARDIS and took a look around, "This looks more like London on a Tuesday in 2012. And didn't I meet that boy here just a few minutes ago? It'd be years for him, though. Twenty three years to the day if I'm correct." He paused, glancing around the street a moment again, "His name was Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it? Maybe he's still living around here."

"Sherlock Holmes?" A young woman who'd been passing him by paused, her eyes wide with hope, "Did you say Sherlock Holmes?"

The Doctor smiled, "Yes, I did. Do you know him?"

"Oh no, but I've heard of him!" She exclaimed, blushing lightly as she did, "I haven't gotten a chance to see him anywhere but in the papers. A friend of mine saw him walking down the street once, though. She said he's so much more handsome in real life, too. Is he a friend of yours? Do you know him? Perhaps you could introduce me?"

The Doctor blinked at her a few times before replying, "Sorry, um, we only met once, and it was a long time ago. I was just wondering if he still lived in this area."

"Oh," she seemed disappointed, "Well, yes. He does live around here still; 221b Baker Street. I wouldn't try to see him, though, unless you have a very interesting case. He doesn't like boring cases."

"A case?" The Doctor chewed on his lip, "What kind of cases does he like, then? I have a few really nice computer cases that I got from Venice a few years ago. Oh, I even have some from Japan! Those older ones, you know kind of like the business cases, only not made of leather. Do you think he'd like those?"

The girl stared at him, "Where have you been for the past year? Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective, the only one in the world, so obviously I meant a case like a mystery for him to solve."

The Doctor smiled sheepishly, "Oh, well that's entirely different from what I thought you were talking about, then. It's too bad, though. I really do have too many cases that I've picked up here and there. It would've been nice to get rid of a few of them. I'm sort of running out of room."

At this point, though, the girl had walked off, annoyed by his constant rambling. But the Doctor didn't really mind. He'd heard all he needed to know, anyway.

Originally, the Doctor had been heading to that particular date to visit this beautiful church he'd seen back in the thirteenth century, because he'd heard that it was still standing in 2012, and he just had to see for himself. But the prospect of meeting Sherlock Holmes again now that he was a grown man – especially after it had been twenty seven years for Sherlock and only minutes for the Doctor – was a much more exciting prospect.

_221b Baker Street, hm?_

It was easy enough to find, so the Doctor ascended the steps and knocked on the door of said address, waiting patiently for someone to answer. When an old woman opened the door, however, the Doctor blinked in confusion, had he gotten the location wrong?

"I'm sorry; I must have the wrong place," he said, a bit confused. The girl had told him 221b Baker Street, hadn't she?

"Who are you looking for, dear?" The woman asked.

"Ah, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I was told he lived here."

The woman nodded, "Oh, he does. But he's out right now. Would you like to stay and wait until he gets back?"

"Oh no, that's alright." The Doctor smiled, "Instead do you think you could just give Mr. Holmes a message from me?"

"Of course," she smiled.

"Okay, then . . . well, tell him the Doctor came to see him, and he brought his impossible box." The Doctor grinned, amused by the strange look she gave him, and offered her a little bow before turning and flouncing off to go waste time.

After all, as he'd said before, Sherlock Holmes wasn't the original reason he was there. So he could go look at the church he'd been planning on seeing at first, and then he could just go and explore. He'd never really been to London in that year, after all. It'd be interesting to see how much it had changed.

_I'll come back tomorrow, Mr. Holmes._ He thought, grinning back at the door of 221b Baker Street even as he made his way down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his pockets as he smiled up at the sky without a care in the world.

He had high hopes for the next few days.

X X X

Sherlock took off his coat and scarf with a flourish, hardly bothering to look where he tossed them as he collapsed onto the couch. He needed to think.

"Would you like some tea?" John wondered, entering their flat right behind him.

"Yes," Sherlock replied absently, not really listening to him. He was lost in his thoughts, going back over all the data he'd gathered at the crime scene and trying to piece together any other ideas and possible suspects from what he knew. But alas, besides what he'd told Lestrade before, nothing seemed to fit.

_Damn it . . ._

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective opened his eyes and glanced at John, noticing how the shorter man had paused and was staring at him strangely.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied.

"I wanted to thank you for what you did earlier . . . at the crime scene."

"Ah . . ." Sherlock understood. John was talking about how he'd told him to go wait at the cab, saving him from having to continue looking upon the gruesome scene. "You're welcome, I suppose."

John allowed himself a small smile as he handed Sherlock his tea.

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called, knocking on their open door, "Did you two just get back?"

"Yes, we did. Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John said.

"Hello, dear. And ah, Sherlock, before I forget – someone left you a message."

Sherlock's eyes had fluttered shut, a sign he wasn't that interested, but still he said, "Yes?"

"It was from a very strange man who came around no more than half an hour ago – he called himself the Doctor."

"Doctor who?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "He didn't say."

"I didn't ask for a doctor," Sherlock murmured, "I already have one." He motioned at John, who looked a bit embarrassed.

Mrs. Hudson frowned, "Either way, he asked me to give you the message."

Sherlock sighed, "What is it, then?"

"All he said was to tell you that the Doctor came to see you . . . oh, and he brought his impossible box."

Sherlock suddenly bolted to his feet, making both John and Mrs. Hudson jump, and stared at the older woman intensely, his eyes now a light gray-green that startled her enough to actually make her back away from him.

_"What did you say?"_

"Sherlock –"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock snapped, grabbing Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders, "Say that again, Mrs. Hudson, what you said just now – the _exact words_."

"A-ah yes, he said that the Doctor came to see you, and he brought his impossible box."

Sherlock paled a bit and stepped back, releasing her. _"It can't be . . ."_ He gasped.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John demanded.

But Sherlock was no longer listening. He dashed back to his room, grabbing the box of journals from where he'd left it earlier that day and rummaging through it, ignoring the journals that he knocked aside. John entered the room moments later, looking unsure.

"Aha!" Sherlock cried as he found his journal from 1989. He flipped through to the entry he'd seen before, skimming over it until he found what he wanted. "Listen to this, John," he said, unable to keep his excitement in check, "_He was a very strange man who called himself 'the Doctor' and with him he had this little blue box; an impossible box that appeared and disappeared and actually flew._"

"What?" John strode forward, "What is that, Sherlock?"

"This is my journal from 1989 – I was twelve, then. And it was on the twenty-third of May that I saw him. He appeared in my room that night in an impossible blue box, and he called himself 'the Doctor.' "

"Then, the man who left that message –"

"- Was the same man." Sherlock couldn't believe it.

"But, wait. I don't understand. Sherlock, you're not making any sense. You said he appeared in your room with this impossible box of his that appeared and disappeared and could fly? That's insane. Not to mention, that was twenty three years ago. Why would he come leave you a message now?"

Sherlock's eyes hardened and he closed the journal, spinning to face John. "I have never told anyone this before, John, because I knew they wouldn't believe me. But I'm not mad; the proof of its appearance there was irrefutable."

"Fine, fine," John sighed, "I'll believe you. But why would this _Doctor_ wait to come back twenty three years later?"

". . . Time machine."

"I'm sorry, _what?_"

"The box, John. The impossible blue box; he said it was a time machine."

"Oh, of course it is." John said sarcastically.

"It's only a theory, John. I don't know what to believe yet." Sherlock put the journal back in the box, his eyes that intense gray-green again. "But I do know that something strange is going on, and I also know – I'm not exactly sure how, yet – that this is connected to my latest case."

John shook his head, "You mean the murder of that poor, mutilated woman Lestrade called us to see earlier? How could this be connected to that?"

"Like I said, I'm not sure yet. All I know is that something isn't right, and I'm going to find out what."


	3. Coincidence

_"And all my days are trances,_

_And all my nightly dreams_

_Are where thy grey eye glances,_

_And where thy footstep gleams –_

_In what ethereal dances,_

_By what eternal streams."_

_- 'To One in Paradise'_

_Edgar Allan Poe_

X X X

_"You boys are still there?"_ Bobby drawled, _"I only sent you to find Crowley's bones, I didn't tell you to stay."_

Sam put his phone on speaker so Dean could hear as well, "Bobby, we were just passing from Scotland to England –"

"– Because Sam insisted –" Dean interjected.

Sam glared at him, "– And we heard some talk about a few weird murders in London. It sounds like something we should check out."

Bobby sighed heavily, making the speakers crackle, _"Fine, but you boys report back to me regularly, alright? And don't stay there too long."_

"Roger that," Dean said, "I miss my baby already."

"It was either a bus or rent a car, Dean. And taking a bus is less expensive."

"I realize that Mr. Know-it-all," Dean bitched.

_"Alright, alright!"_ Bobby said, cutting them off. _"Look, just get this done and get back here, okay? And try not to kill each other."_

"One more thing, Bobby." Sam said, "Have you seen Cas lately?"

_"Not since you guys left, no. Why? Something happen?"_

"Nah, we were just wondering." Dean said, "Bye, Bobby."

Sam pressed the end call button and sighed, "Did you read over the police reports for that last murder?"

"The one you found last night? Yeah, of course."

"I don't know about you, but it sounds like vampires to me."

"Vampires on steroids is more like it." Dean said, "I've never seen them cut up someone like that before."

"It's worth checking out." Sam said as the bus stopped, letting them off.

"I never said it wasn't," Dean retorted, but he quickly realized that his brother wasn't listening, and he only had to glance over to see why. Sam's eyes widened in wonder and excitement, and there was a look of awe on his face as he stared at the streets around them.

"Dean . . . we're – we're in London."

"Yeah, I know, Sammy." Dean chuckled, "Don't go all geek on me right now, though, okay? We're going to get this done quick and get out of here. I want to be back on American soil again."

"Yeah, but come on, Dean. We're in _London_."

"I heard you the first time." Dean straightened his jacket, "It's cold here too, damn it. And it looks like it's about to rain, and I'm friggin' hungry. Let's get some food." He paused and glared at Sam a moment, "And no fish and chips."

Sam just sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Jamie Wells."

John Watson looked up from the program he'd been watching on the telly. "What?"

Sherlock had been lounging on the couch, brooding silently as he struggled to piece together the clues from the case so far. There had been four victims, with the unidentified woman being the latest, and Lestrade had officially named it a serial killer case (something that excited Sherlock too much for it to be healthy.) So far, however, Sherlock had gotten nowhere on how to connect the case and the so called _Doctor_, nor had he been able to come up with any other clues regarding the murderer.

And when John asked, all he'd said was 'teeth,' something that still made John shudder when he thought about it. He hadn't expected Sherlock to say anything for the next few hours at least, though. He'd been lost in his mind palace, so for him to say something now, it had nearly made John jump in fright.

"Who's Jamie Wells?"

"The victim of the latest murder," Sherlock said. "Lestrade just texted me; they found out who she was from her fingerprints. Apparently she had a bit of a record."

"I see," John said, "Does her name give you any clues?"

Sherlock sighed, obviously frustrated. "No."

"And what about the Doctor?"

"What about him?"

"Do you think he'll come back?"

Sherlock sighed again, leaning back on the couch, "I do. I just don't know when. It's been twenty-three years since I last saw him; it might be twenty-three more."

"You said he had something to do with this case, though."

"I did." Sherlock murmured, his eyes now holding that far-away, glassy look, and John shook his head and went back to his program. Sherlock was lost in his mind palace again; he wouldn't get anything more from him for a while.

Sam and Dean ate a suitable dinner, but then afterwards they knew that there was a considerable amount of work to do, so they found a suitable hotel and holed up there, going off to do their individual work like always.

Sam found a few more reports on the previous murders and started checking to see how they sounded when compared to what they knew about vampires, and Dean decided to go check around and ask the families of the victims. The first he checked was the victim of the latest murder; a seventeen-year-old girl named Jamie Wells who apparently had no family left but an old grandmother who lived in a retirement home. Sam got him the address, and he took a cab to the location.

It was relatively easy to find the grandmother once he got to the retirement home, too. She'd rarely had any visitors, apparently, save for her granddaughter. But after the death of said granddaughter she'd been interview by many people, so his presence wasn't really questioned, which was a nice change.

Her room was quite easy to find, and once he did find it she answered all his questions easily. She didn't seem very upset about her granddaughter's death, though, and that was something that intrigued Dean.

"So, were you two close?" He asked.

The old woman sighed, "She wanted us to be. She visited often, and she was always buying me things. But I never did forgive her, and I think that was a huge wall in the way of furthering any sort of friendship."

"Forgive her?" Dean blinked, "What did you never forgive her for?"

"She's the reason my daughter's dead." The old woman said a matter-of-factly. "My daughter, Elaine, was talking on her cell while driving. I'd always told her it wasn't a good idea, but she never listened. Elaine and Jamie were fighting, you see, because Jamie always complained at how overprotective of a mother Elaine was. The fight was getting rather heated, apparently, and it was distracting my daughter . . ." She sniffed, tears filling her eyes, "She never did see that other car coming."

Dean frowned, "And so you blamed Jamie for it?"

"Well, of course." The old woman snapped, "If she hadn't been fighting over Elaine with something as trivial as a curfew, then my daughter wouldn't be dead!"

Dean was a bit unsure how to respond, so he just sat there awkwardly for another few moments before finally getting to his feet. "Thank you for your time," he said.

"She deserved it, you know." The old woman called out as he left, "Jamie got what was coming to her, in the end!"

Dean shuddered.

The sound of his cell phone ringing as he left the retirement home nearly made him jump out of his skin.

"Dude!" He exclaimed when he flipped it open, "That woman is scary as hell!"

_"Who, the grandmother?"_ Sam asked, pertinent as always.

"Yeah, she's all 'Jamie is the reason my daughter is dead and she deserved to die,' and ugh, I swear. I wouldn't be surprised if that lady had hired a hitman or something. She has to be a suspect."

_"She's an old woman, Dean."_

"Old women can still hire assassins."

Dean could practically hear Sam rolling his eyes. _"Whatever. But I think I have some conclusive evidence that this is a vampire attack. I just want to research it a bit more, to be sure."_

"Do you have the address for the family of the previous victim?"

_"Yeah, Ethan Caldan. He was the first victim. But apparently he was the CEO of some big company here, so you might have trouble getting any additional info because they locked it up pretty tight."_

"What does the case file say, though? Was the crime scene just like the one for Jamie Wells?"

_"Yeah, and it was the same with the other two victims. In fact the Detective Inspector on the case from Scotland Yard has declared these murders to be official serial killings."_

"Wait, so there have been four murders like this? I thought there'd only been two."

_"So did I. But that was before I hacked Scotland Yard's databases."_

"Scotland Yard," Dean grinned, "It's so weird hearing you say that."

Sam sighed, _"Focus, Dean. Ethan Caldan had only a brother left, as both his parents died early deaths. Give me a second and I'll get his address."_

"Alright, let's do this."

_"One more thing, though, because this is weird." _Sam said, _"In the case file from Scotland Yard it says something about a consulting detective. Do you know what that is?"_

"A detective who consults?"

_"Don't be a smart-ass, Dean. Seriously, have you ever heard of a consulting detective before?"_

"No. Maybe it's a British thing, who knows. The Brits are weird."

_"Smooth."_

"I know I am. Who's this consulting detective, then, if he's so big and bad?"

_"Sherlock Holmes."_

"What kind of name is that?"

_"No idea."_ Sam said, _"Alright, I got Ethan's brother's address. So go interview him and then get back here. I should be done by then. Also, I don't think we need to worry about this 'Sherlock Holmes' character. I doubt he's anything special."_

"Aye-aye, captain." Dean said as he shut the phone with a little grin and started off down the street. He caught a cab easily and gave him the address to the Caldan dude's place, wanting to get the interview over. This was always one of his least favorite parts.

Something nagged at him, though.

_Sherlock Holmes, huh?_


	4. Storm

_"Miracles are like meatballs, because nobody can exactly agree on what they are made of, where they come from, or how often they should appear."_

_- 'The Carnivorous Carnival'_

_Lemony Snicket_

X X X

"I'm going out."

John looked up at his flatmate, frowning as he saw Sherlock rushing about, grabbing his coat and scarf and donning them with a haste that made him seem more manic than usual. Was this case really bothering him that much? John hadn't seen him that flustered since Moriarty.

"It's bitter cold outside, Sherlock." He said, trying to be the voice of reason. "Where are you planning to go?"

"Anywhere but here; I can't think!"

"Do you want me to come?"

"No." Sherlock said shortly as he descended down the stairs, "Go back to your program, John."

John Watson stayed tense and alert a few moments longer, but finally he just relaxed and did what Sherlock had said. After all, he knew that the consulting detective would probably be out for a while, lost in his mind palace as he walked the streets he knew so well. John had nothing to worry about, so he leaned back in his chair, sipped at his tea, and turned his attention back to the telly.

He was interrupted mere moments later, however, when the doorbell rang. Normally he would've left it for Mrs. Hudson since she was the landlady, but she was out running errands, so it was up to him to leave the comfort of his chair and answer it. An unfamiliar man greeted him when he opened the door, though. He had mussed brown hair, light, honey-brown eyes, and a strange assortment of clothing that included converse somehow being grouped together with a pinstripe suit, and though he looked normal enough something about him just seemed off. But he grinned at John so kindly that John couldn't help but smile hesitantly back.

"Hello," the man said cheerfully, "Is Sherlock Holmes in?"

John shook his head, "Sorry, you just missed him. Do you want me to take a message? He might be away a while." He glanced at his watch, considering how long Sherlock's walks normally took. "A _long _while."

The man sighed. "Ah, foiled again. I keep getting the timing wrong."

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" John asked, a bit suspicious.

"Oh yes, how rude of me," the man grinned, "I'm the Doctor."

John's eyes widened and for a moment he could only stare, because, wait . . . was this truly him? The man who'd visited Sherlock when he was younger? But he hardly looked a day over thirty, how on earth could he have visited Sherlock twenty-three years ago? Hadn't Sherlock said he'd been a fully grown man? If that was true then there was no possible way this man calling himself 'The Doctor' was the same 'Doctor' Sherlock had been talking about. No, there just wasn't.

But John couldn't keep himself from asking. "The Doctor?" He reiterated, "Hold on, _the_ Doctor? Are you really him? The one Sherlock . . ." he trailed off suddenly, realizing that might be a bit personal, and swallowed his words.

The Doctor blinked, "The one Sherlock . . . what?"

"Never mind," John said quickly, "But are you really him – the man who visited Sherlock twenty-three years ago?"

A mysterious smile spread cross the Doctor's face. "Oh, so he told you?"

A bit unnerved by the look in his eyes, John nodded nonetheless. "Yes, he did."

"And what was your name?"

"Watson," John said, "Doctor John Watson."

The Doctor's eyes sparkled, "So, Doctor John Watson, tell me, what has Sherlock been up to these last twenty three years, hm?"

X X X

Dean rifled through his duffle bag mechanically, going by memory of how many times he and Sam had done this before as they both chose their weapons. They'd caught whiff of what could be a possible vampire hang out – a bar over near the other side of town – and they wanted to make sure they were prepared, just in case.

"I highly doubt that _everyone_ in this bar will be actual vampires, though," Sam said on their way there. The bus they'd taken was inexpensive, and Dean had given in easily to taking the public transport despite threatening to walk all the way there. "I think it's mainly a place for just a few vampires at a time to slip in and hang out without arousing suspicions."

"Well, that's good," Dean said, "But how will we be able to tell who's a vamp and who's not?"

"I might be able to assist."

Dean and Sam both practically jumped out of their skin, spinning in their seats in sync to see Castiel sitting behind them, his blue gaze unwavering. It was odd to see an angel sitting on a bus, Sam thought.

"Cas!" Dean gasped, regaining his composure. "Where have you been? We haven't seen you since we left the states."

"I've been busy." Castiel said, "But that's not important right now. You're searching for a vampire?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah, um, there has been a string of weird murders characteristic to vampire attacks."

"Make that frenzied vampire attacks," Dean added, "I don't know what these things are high on, but I'm staying away from it."

"We got wind of what could be a trail to the murderer," Sam continued, "It leads to this bar just on the other side of the city. We just need a way to identify vampire from human, that's all."

"Can you do that, Cas?" Dean asked.

Castiel glanced at him, seeming a bit miffed, "Of course I can."

The bus let them off about a block from the bar Sam had mentioned, and they walked the rest of the way there, not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves. Though Sam reflected that it was impossible to stay completely under-the-radar, especially with how out-of-place the three of them looked.

They made it into the bar fine, but that didn't stop others from staring at them – rather openly, too. Then again, two rugged-looking brothers and a stoic tax accountant did make for a pretty ragtag group, especially in a bar like this one.

"Well, Cas?" Dean glanced around the place, grimacing at its interior, "You got anything? Cause I kind of want to be out of here as quickly as possible."

"Give me a moment," the angel murmured.

Dean made a face, about to retort, but Castiel held up a hand and cut him off.

"There," Castiel pointed at a door that led to the back of the establishment.

Dean blinked, "That was fast."

"I said I only needed a moment."

Sam rolled his eyes, "Come on, before he gets away!"

Cutting a swath through the crowd, Sam had them to the door quickly, and then they were out on the back streets behind the bar. The walls of the alley were close, and there was some sort of smell in the air that Dean didn't really want to let his thoughts linger on.

"Where is he?" Dean asked in a low whisper.

Castiel pointed again, over to the shadows behind a dumpster, "There."

Dean pulled out his machete, shifting easily into the Hunter as he stalked forward. "Hey, vampy, vampy, vampy," He said, swinging his machete expertly, "We got you some fresh meat here!"

The vampire emerged from behind the dumpster, dripping blood from its mouth and all down its shirt, and snarled menacingly at them. But they weren't afraid. And, as always, Dean barreled into the situation head-on, his ever loyal brother and a renegade angel by his side, fighting with him as if they had been doing this all their lives. And it was over within moments.

Castiel had the vampire pinned to the wall, using some Enochian charm he'd muttered in that deep, gravelly voice of his – a voice that Dean insisted did not kind of sort of almost turn him on – to keep him from escaping. Sam had a vial of dead man's blood for help in case the vamp wasn't feeling chatty, and of course the threat of decapitation hanging over his head was enough to get his mouth moving as well.

But he knew nothing.

Castiel said after a moment that the vamp was telling the truth; he really knew nothing about the murders, or the frenzied vampires who'd committed them. So, thanking the monster sarcastically, Dean loped his head off his shoulders with one fell swoop.

And just like that, it was done.

"Dean!" Castiel said suddenly, a warning note in his voice that made the eldest Winchester brother turn to see the angel staring at the end of the alleyway.

"What is it, Cas?"

Castiel's eyes hardened, "Someone saw."

Both Dean and Sam froze. That was bad, that was really bad. If someone had seen that and was able to ID them, then they were fucked; there was no way they'd be able to explain that sort of thing away, not even with all of Dean's charm and all of Sam's logic-ness.

And, though Dean's thoughts were currently ranging around the level of _oh hell no_, Sam chose a much less subtle way of describing their current situation.

"Well, this is not good."

"And the award for understatement of the year goes to Sammy Winchester!" Dean exclaimed sarcastically, "Because, Sammy, this is what happens when _not good's_ evil cousin _screwed to hell _comes to town. This is far beyond the level of _not good_." He turned to his angel companion, "Did you see who it was, Cas?"

Castiel shook his head, "I will find him, though." He murmured. The faint sound of wings could be heard for just a moment, and then he was gone, leaving Dean and Sam in the alleyway with the body of a vampire between them and the threat of exposure hanging over their heads.

So far, this little side-trip was going to shit.

X X X

Sherlock ran.

He'd never felt more terrified in his entire life, and that was saying something. The consulting detective had seen many gruesome murder scenes before, but never had he actually see the murder take place in front of him. Never had he actually seen someone kill another person so easily in cold blood without even hesitating.

It terrified him.

He rushed home, back to where he knew he'd be safe, and could only pray that the three hadn't seen him. See, he'd been absolutely sure he'd gone unnoticed, but the shorter man in the beige trench coat, the one with the blank face and strange, shining eyes . . . something about him had been a bit weird. And Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling that this – whatever _this_ was – wasn't over.

That thought alone unnerved him even as he entered 221b Baker Street and dashed up the stairs. He was prepared to tell John everything that had happened, wanting to just hear his flat mate's voice because John always calmed him down, _always_. And right now he really needed something to help him calm down.

He half-staggered half-ran to the open door that led to the kitchen and the living room, his mouth open and the words already on the tip of his tongue, but he froze as he saw someone there, sitting across from John – someone who looked exactly the same as he had twenty-three years ago, right down to the sparkle in his eyes and the red converse.

But, that was _impossible._

"Y-you . . ." Sherlock gasped, entirely not prepared for this.

The man he'd remembered as the Doctor stood and smiled at him, "It's good to see you again, Sherlock Holmes."


	5. Stronger Than Before

_"The magic of purpose and of love in its purest form; not television love, with its glare and hollow and sequined glint; not sex and allure, all high shoes and high drama, everything both too small and in too much excess, but just love. Love like rain, like the smell of a tangerine, like a surprise found in your pocket."_

_- 'Honey, Baby, Sweetheart'_

_Deb Caletti_

X X X

John had always known, somewhere deep down, that he was abnormally loyal and affectionate to Sherlock. He'd never really thought much about it, though. It was just something he'd accepted and then shoved into the darkest corner of his mind, for it didn't really need to be thought about.

Sherlock _was_ his best friend, after all.

But when he saw the consulting detective dash up the stairs and into the living room of their flat, eyes wide and hair mussed and something akin to terror in his eyes, a flash of worry and want sizzled through John's veins with a force that nearly jolted him from his chair.

And that's when he knew.

He was prepared to stand up, to embrace Sherlock and ask him what was wrong, and even if the brilliant detective tried to push him away he'd hold on tight, but the Doctor beat him to the punch, getting to his feet and smiling at Sherlock where he still stood in the doorway; panting hard and noticeably disheveled.

"It's good to see you again, Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor said.

Sherlock stared. "How is this possible?" He finally asked after a moment, his light-blue eyes glancing at John, "You . . . you look just the same as you did when we first met."

"You don't, though," The Doctor grinned, "You grew up quite nicely, didn't you? You even got yourself a nice flat. And to be sharing it with someone like Doctor John Watson over here is wonderful!"

John was still trying to process what Sherlock had said, "Wait, how do you mean he looks the same as he did when you first met?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, John," Sherlock snapped, obviously rattled, "Twenty-three years ago the Doctor looked like he does now; same hair, same clothes, same shoes, same everything."

John wasn't sure how to react. "But . . . how?"

"I told you on that day all those years ago," The Doctor said, "Time and Relative Dimension in Space, remember? My impossible blue box . . . ?" He trailed off, glancing at Sherlock expectantly.

John, meanwhile, was bewildered as usual and feeling stupid because of it. He had no idea what they were talking about, and so far they hadn't given him any direct answers. He wondered if perhaps Sherlock's next words would clear things up for him as they normally did, but the two continued to stay silent, and finally John could take it no longer.

"What does that mean?" He asked, "Time and dimension in space, or whatever?"

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space," Sherlock corrected, his eyes narrowing slightly, "It means it's a time machine. He's saying he has a time machine."

The Doctor nodded, "Exactly. As a matter of fact, I only just met you yesterday in my time, and yet it's been twenty-three years for you." He grinned, "Time travel, you know. It's very confusing sometimes."

"You're completely mad." John said after a moment of silence.

"Not the first time I've been told that," the Doctor admitted.

"Do you expect us to just believe you, then? Just like that?" Sherlock asked mutinously, his voice strangely soft. If it had been anyone else, John would've thought _subdued_. But no, that wasn't how Sherlock worked. He must've just misinterpreted the consulting detective's tone.

"No, of course not," the Doctor smiled, "In fact, I thought I'd just show you."

"Show us?" John echoed.

The Doctor nodded, "I have a time machine, remember? The proof to everything I've said is just down the street – though, if you think about it, I'm proof too. How else would I look _exactly_ as I did the day we first met, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John found that unsettling.

It was cold outside, and dark, and John's coat wasn't nearly warm enough, especially with the wind slicing through him so adamantly. He just wanted to get back home and curl up with a nice hot cup of tea. And yet still he followed, because he realized long ago that where Sherlock went, he went.

The realization he'd had before came back to him just then and he looked down at his feet. He could pinpoint that strange fluttery feeling now, the one he got whenever he was around Sherlock. It was more than loyalty or friendship, it was . . . something else; something he wasn't sure he wanted to admit to just yet.

"There it is!" The Doctor exclaimed suddenly, practically skipping over to the big blue box in the middle of the sidewalk and opening the door as he gestured for them to enter. "Come on!"

"We can't fit in there," John protested, "It's too small."

The Doctor gave him that grin again; mischievous and daunting and inviting all at once. "You'd be surprised."

John glanced at Sherlock, unsure, but the consulting detective didn't hesitate, not even for a moment. He stepped into the TARDIS – the impossible blue box – as easily as if he was entering his own bedroom. And John followed without question.

The Doctor entered behind them, closing the door as he did, and then that was it. No turning back now.

There was a whooshing sound, strange and screeching and yet inviting; as fascinatingly terrifying as the Doctor himself. Then – slowly, as if it was building up momentum – the box began to fade from view, and within moments it was gone, having disappeared into thin air, as the cliché goes.

And all was quiet again along the dark street.

X X X

"Dean."

Dean's gun was out and cocked so fast he hardly registered the motion, it had become so second-nature to him. But all he saw when he turned around was a pair of bottomless blue eyes staring back at him from the other side of the shotgun's barrel.

He sighed heavily, "Cas . . ."

"My apologies," Castiel said, realizing he'd done something wrong.

"It's fine," Dean waved it off.

Castiel looked awkward a moment longer before he composed himself, "He's gone, Dean."

Dean blinked, "What? Who's gone?"

"The man, the one who saw us – well, _you_, specifically – kill that monster in the alleyway earlier."

"Okay . . ." Dean's eyebrows furrowed, nearly meeting together in the middle of his forehead, "Wait, what do you mean _he's gone? _Can't you use your angel mojo to find him?"

"That's what I'm trying to explain. He was there, Dean. I know because I tracked him down the streets. I felt the presence of his soul around me, and then it was just gone – disappeared as if he never existed."

"How is that possible?"

Castiel shook his head, "I do not know. But I will find out."

Dean sighed, suddenly feeling very worried about the whole situation. Something about it just wasn't right, and he'd learned from experience to trust his instincts. All the same, it could wait. He needed information right now, before Castiel decided to flutter off again. "Well, did you at least get a name, Cas? I mean, I could have Sammy do a bit of research and learn more about whoever this guy is, and maybe that'd help speed things along a bit."

"Good idea," the angel agreed, "I only got a first name, though – Sherlock."

"Weird name," Dean frowned, "It sounds familiar."

"You find out who he is, and I'll find out where he is." Castiel said.

Dean smirked at him, "Fair enough."

They both paused for a sudden moment then, staring at each other strangely. It was as if they'd quite suddenly been caught in a time warp or something – both unable to move. Their eyes stayed locked together, blue on green, and Dean couldn't look away, for the moment had jumped up on them, grasping tightly and not letting go, and Dean just sort of stood there; frozen in place and extremely confused. Castiel's eyes seemed to just suck him in with their color. They were so eternally blue, like an endless waterfall. Loud and dangerous, refreshing and calm, patient and compliant . . .

Dean suddenly thought it strange how well a waterfall actually described Castiel.

"Dean," Castiel said suddenly, and just like that the moment shattered.

Released from the pull of the angel's gaze, Dean turned around, giving Castiel only his back.

"Dean . . ." Castiel said again.

"You should go find that Sherlock guy," Dean said, "I'll put Sam to work."

He could imagine Castiel's reaction as clearly as if he was looking right at the angel; shoulders slumping, eyes slipping down to stare at the floor, head bowing. He'd maybe stand there a moment longer, feeling awkward and unsure, but then he'd go, too confused to respond and too uncertain to ask Dean what had happened.

Right on cue, Dean heard the sound of wings, and when he turned around Castiel was gone.

Dean knew him too well if he'd been able to predict that turn of events so accurately. But, despite the angel's terrifying power, in reality he was just as awkwardly human as the rest of them; something that Dean found endearing (thought he'd never admit it out loud,) and also something he could use as leverage.

It was a simple thing indeed to ignore the ache in his chest. He was used to it.

But it was far too quiet on the bus ride back to the hotel he and Sam were holed up in, and all Dean could think about the entire time were these blue, blue eyes. Eyes so blue they swallowed you up like the ocean, pulling you deeper and deeper until you no longer had the strength or the want to pull away.

He shook himself from these thoughts, though, for he had work to do. The bus dropped him off at the hotel, and he quickly grabbed his things and left, wanting to be away from that stifling wistful feeling he kept getting.

"Sammy?" He called as he entered the hotel room.

Sam looked up from his computer, "Hey, Dean." The younger Winchester sighed, "There's been another murder."

Dean's eyes widened, "Already?"

"Yeah – they can identify the body quicker this time also, because her face was mostly undamaged." He turned the monitor to face Dean, and he couldn't help the horror that showed on his face.

"That's . . . that's just a little girl," Dean breathed. "What is she, twelve?"

"Eleven," Sam corrected. "And I doubt this vamp will stop there; next thing you know we'll have dead infants on our conscience."

Dean glared at him, "Don't joke about that, Sam."

"I wasn't," Sam said seriously.

They both stayed silent a bit longer, unsure about what to say next, when Dean suddenly remembered what Castiel had told him and about how he'd promised to have Sam do some research on the 'Sherlock' guy . . . whoever he was.

However, when he told Sam this, his younger brother gave him the bitchiest bitchface he'd ever seen.

"Do you never listen to me?" Sam sighed, exasperated, "I told you about him earlier today! This very same day! I told you about Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, and how you should watch out for him. How could you not remember that?"

Dean stared, "What, you think it's the same guy?"

"I think the name 'Sherlock' is uncommon enough for us to be sure enough."

"What do you think, then?"

Sam paused for a moment, just a moment, but Dean clearly interpreted the hesitation for what it was - uncertainty. And he knew that, above all people, after all they'd been through together, Sam was strong; much stronger than before. So what was it that had him looking so spooked?

"Sammy?" Dean finally chanced after a few more moments of silence.

"I don't like this, Dean." Sam said finally, "Something here is wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"Honestly, I don't really know just yet," Sam admitted, turning to glance out the window, "But I have a strange feeling we're going to find out soon."


	6. Something New

_"Truth would quickly cease to become stranger than fiction, once we got used to it."_

_- H. L. Mencken_

X X X

"Welcome to Bouken!" The Doctor said cheerily, opening the door of the TARDIS and bounding out with a gleeful smile as his feet hit sand and sunk down a few inches.

John followed just behind him, staring around with something that resembled a mixture of terror, awe, and confusion, because they'd just been standing in the middle of London, at night, and now it was mid-day, and they were in what seemed to be a desert.

"How the hell is this possible?" He gasped.

Sherlock came up behind him, his face carefully expressionless, but John knew better. He knew that every move – no matter how small – gave the consulting detective away far more than any gaudy, boisterous action ever could. That's why he watched so closely; he paid attention. And, in the end, it paid off, for he could see the slight change in Sherlock's eyes – the shift from its normal, indifferent grey to a sharp blue color that was worried and tense.

Sherlock glanced up at the sky, then, and his eyes widened, "Well, John . . . I know that my knowledge of the solar system is limited. But isn't there only supposed to be one sun?"

"Pardon?" John followed his gaze, and his eyes widened so at what he saw that he was afraid they'd fall out of his head, for there in the sky, orbiting them as if it was perfectly normal, were three suns.

_Three suns._

"Ah, yes." The Doctor said, hands in his coat pockets as he joined them, "Bouken is famous for primarily its deserts, oil, and the three suns it harbors. Not really much to do on this planet, though. I just wanted to give you proof that I was telling the truth and that I wasn't a madman. Well . . . I'm still a madman, but that's irrelevant. I could take you so many more places; so many of which are much more interesting and exciting! And by the way, those are artificial suns; nothing to get truly worked up about."

John stared, "This . . . this is real . . ."

The Doctor nodded, "Believe me now?" He queried with a self-satisfied air about him.

Sherlock was still staring up at the sky. "I'd be a fool not to. While something like this was always an improbable explanation for me, it's definitely not impossible. And you've given me indisputable proof."

"This is bloody fantastic!" John exclaimed, cutting Sherlock off, "I'm standing _on a different world,_ Sherlock! And time machines are real, and aliens too!" He pointed at the Doctor suddenly, "Hang on, are you an alien?"

"Time Lord," the Doctor said. "Specifically, I'm a Time Lord."

"Oh, of course," John said sarcastically, "I should've known. It's so obvious that you're a Time Lord – absolutely sodding obvious."

"Then to answer your question – yes, on Earth I'd be considered an alien." The Doctor grinned, "Want proof? I have two hearts, I don't age, I regenerate, and I live . . . well, I was born on the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous. That's about two-hundred-and-fifty million light years from Earth."

"Two-hundred-and-fifty million light years?" John repeated, "But . . . doesn't that put you outside of the Milky Way galaxy?"

The Doctor smirked, "I did say I was an alien."

"Regenerate?" Sherlock asked suddenly, "What do you mean by regenerate?"

"Ah, yes. It's this . . . this way to 'cheat death' if you will that Time Lords have. Just before we die we change, thus halting death in its tracks. And in return we get a new body, new teeth, new eyes, new hair, new personality – in fact, the only thing that really remains the same are the memories we've gathered over the years."

"That sounds a bit lonely," John murmured.

The Doctor fell silent at this.

"Are there other Time Lords, then?" Sherlock wondered. "Perhaps you could take us to see your planet?"

"No," the Doctor said shortly, "That's not an option." He turned then and walked back toward the TARDIS and Sherlock and John could do naught but follow. The door closed behind them, and the Doctor took off his coat, flinging it to the side as he ran up to the TARDIS's control panel to fiddle with all the strange levers and buttons there.

"It really is amazing, though," John said. "Maybe it's lonely, but you get to see all that amazing stuff, right?"

"I do pick up companions along the way, and I save a few people here and there, too." The Doctor said, "So it's not always lonely."

"And is it worth it?"

The Doctor smiled at that, his eyes twinkling. "Yes," he murmured, "It is most certainly worth it."

X X X

Sam was asleep.

Dean could see him, slightly illuminated in the light from the streetlamp that streamed in through the blinds. His eyes were closed, his hands folded on his chest from where he was lying on his back, and his breathing was deep and even.

Dean envied him.

The eldest Winchester brother couldn't get to sleep. He just kept tossing and turning, hyper-aware of the knife he always kept under his pillow. And, though he tried to ignore it, his thoughts for some reason kept returning to a pair of familiar bright blue eyes no matter what he did to try and distract himself.

_Cas . . ._

The sudden sound of wings reached his ears, pulling him from his thoughts rather efficiently, and Dean was on his feet in moments, knife in hand. The sound of wings made it obvious that their visitor was an angel, but for all he knew it could be Balthazar or – hell, it could even be Raphael. And he did not need that right now.

But as he turned, weapon at the ready, he saw that it was only Castiel, standing there with his normal apparel and staring at Dean with a look that translated to the angel equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, Cas." Dean sighed, "It's just you."

"There's no time. Wake your brother," Castiel said shortly, "And grab what you need. He's back."

"Who's back?"

"Sherlock – the one who saw what we did and who could undo everything we've been working for. He's returned. I don't know how or why or what's going on, but he's back and we need to intercept him before he gets away again."

Dean nodded and he rushed over to shake his brother awake. "Sammy – _Sammy_, wake up."

Sam was awake within moments. Used to being woken up in the middle of the night, he merely rolled out of bed and went for his bag of weapons nearby without asking question, grabbing what he needed and glancing at Castiel.

"Cas found that Sherlock dude," Dean clarified.

"And I will take you both to where he is," the angel said. "We don't have time to waste."

"Wait," Dean said, "Wait, what are we planning on doing to this guy? I mean, we can't just kill him. It's not his fault that he saw what he saw, and we have no justified reason to kill him since he's definitely not a monster or a demon."

"I know," Castiel murmured, "I never planned to harm him. I simply wanted to frighten him into secrecy – or, _threaten_, as you would say."

Dean frowned, "I don't like this."

"Neither do I," Castiel agreed as he put his hands on their shoulders. Dean caught a glimpse – just a glimpse – of what seemed to be two large, white wings, and then they were standing in the middle of a darkened London street, their breaths morphing into clouds of mist in the chill night air. The building in front of them read '221b' on a small plaque on the door, but, as far as Dean could tell, it was empty.

"Where is he, then, this Sherlock guy?"

"Just down the street – _hurry!_" Castiel urged.

The Winchester brothers followed him, running down the next few blocks before turning a corner and nearly running into a group of people who were standing there. It took a second for Dean to notice, but it was three men, all of various size and strength, and they were standing in front of a large blue thing that look almost like one of those old phone boxes – except it was blue instead of red.

But Dean didn't really care about the box just then.

"That's him!" Castiel said, pointing at the tall, lanky one with the dark hair and the long wool coat. And, without even an ounce of hesitation, Dean grabbed the man now identified in his mind as Sherlock and pinned him against the wall with a knife to his neck.

"Sherlock!" The shortest of the three exclaimed, stepping forward. But Castiel intercepted him easily and put two fingers to his forehead, knocking him out-cold with his weird angel mojo. And the third man, who looked sort of out-of-place, now had his hands up and was staring at Sam warily, obviously unhappy that the younger Winchester brother had him at gunpoint.

"Now, now," the man said, "Is this really necessary?"

Castiel stared at him levelly, his blue eyes hard and unblinking. It was a look Dean knew well, and one that he knew shook him to the core when he was on the receiving end. It seemed to have a different effect on the third man, though. Instead of shrinking away from Castiel like people normally did when he stared at them like that, the man seemed to want to advance – to get closer so he could inspect the angel better.

"Fascinating," the man breathed, his eyes sparkling with wonder, "Absolutely fascinating. What are you?"

"That's none of your concern." Castiel replied shortly. "We came only for Sherlock."

Sherlock, who'd been staring at the man Castiel had knocked out, glanced back up sharply at the mention of his name; his eyes a sharp blue color much like Castiel's, the only difference being that Sherlock's were lighter in hue.

"What do you want with me?" Sherlock gasped.

"You saw us," Dean growled, "You saw us kill that vamp, _didn't you?_" He dug the knife into Sherlock's neck a bit further, "Didn't you?"

X X X

Fear.

It bubbled up inside of Sherlock, throwing the consulting detective's emotions askew. John was on the ground – dead or unconscious, he wasn't sure – and the Doctor was being held at gunpoint, and Sherlock himself . . . well, he had a knife at his neck for reasons unknown. But, as the man pinning him to the wall began to speak, the situation became very clear.

And now he recognized the shorter man in the trench coat.

"You!" He gasped, "You were the ones in that alley – the ones who . . ." A vivid memory of the man they decapitated swam up from the surface. With all the excitement about the Doctor returning, Sherlock had practically forgotten what happened in the alley just hours before. He remembered now, of course, but he'd never expected the three culprits to find him like this – and never so soon.

"Whatever you think we did, you're mistaken." The man holding him pinned to the wall said suddenly, his voice low, "We're not murderers. We didn't kill an innocent man."

"Oh?" Sherlock glanced at John again, "What about him?"

"Have no fear, he is not dead," the man in the trench coat said, "I merely rendered him unconscious."

Well, that certainly made Sherlock feel a bit better. However, there was still an issue at hand. "What do you mean you didn't kill an innocent man? Then who was that man in the alley?"

"He was not innocent." The tallest of the three said, "He wasn't even human."

The Doctor's eyes widened a bit at this, "What was he, then?"

The tallest one frowned, "Dean?"

"I'll tell them, Sammy." The one holding Sherlock down – Dean, was it? – said, "That 'man' we killed . . . well, he was a vampire."

Sherlock stared at him. And suddenly, everything made sense.


	7. Thunder

_"The noblest name in Allegory's page,_

_The hand that traced inexorable rage;_

_A pleasing moralist, whose page refined,_

_Displays the deepest knowledge of the mind;_

_A tender poet of a foreign tongue,_

_Indited in the language that he sung."_

_- 'Enigma'_

_Edgar Allan Poe_

X X X

John's eyelids felt heavy.

He struggled to force them open; fought with all his might. He was afraid (terrified, even), for somewhere in the back of his mind was the lingering thought that Sherlock was in danger. He could not remember how or why or what had happened prior to everything around him going black, all he knew was that Sherlock was in some sort of trouble, and that was all that mattered to him.

His lips parted and he groaned softly. His head was pounding and his entire body felt as if it was made of lead. It took a ridiculous amount of strength and energy simply to move the fingers on his right hand.

As the seconds ticked by, though, his body became less and less heavy, and finally he was able to go so far as to lift his head off the plush couch cushions he was currently lying on. But . . . wait. Hadn't he been on the sidewalk when he'd collapsed?

_. . . Sidewalk . . ._

Ah, it all came back to him then; the Doctor, the TARDIS, Bouken, sand, heat, returning, three men, guns, shouting, a knife at Sherlock's throat, brilliant blue eyes, and then . . . darkness.

John remembered now. He remembered all of it. But . . . what had happened to him? That was one thing he hadn't remembered. How had he been knocked out? He hadn't even felt anything hit him. He shoved all that aside, however, as one specific thing jumped back at him out of the memories he'd fished from the groggy recesses of his mind.

_A knife at Sherlock's throat . . ._

"Sh-Sher . . ." He gasped, his tongue feeling dry and awkward in his own mouth as he pushed himself to his knees, "Sherlock . . ."

"John! Oh, good, you're awake!"

That was the Doctor's voice. It was sort of annoying, and a bit too high-pitched. Did the Doctor really have to speak in such a high voice when John's head was pounding with the worst headache he could ever recall having _ever?_

"Shut up," he groaned, putting a hand to his head.

There was a soft chuckle then that John recognized easily, and it made his heart leap with relief.

"I think he's alright, Doctor." Sherlock said in that deep voice of his.

"Look," Another, slightly familiar voice said, "We're on a tight schedule here, chuckles, okay? So we really don't have time to wait for your buddy to wake up. We need to explain everything now."

"Let me," another, deeper voice that John remembered better said. He felt a hand on his shoulder then, and it was like a jolt of electricity coursing through his veins. Suddenly he was wide awake, feeling as if he'd just had a shot of adrenaline. With a gasp he leapt to his feet, breathing hard, his hair and clothes sort of askew, and stared, a bit startled to see that he was in 221b Baker Street in their living room.

Wait . . . _what?_

"Sherlock . . ." he mumbled, feeling a bit dizzy, "What's going on?"

"Just sit back down, John, it'll all be explained in a moment." Sherlock murmured as he guided his friend back down to relax on the cough he'd been lying on.

That's when John noticed the four other men in their flat. The Doctor, of course, was a given, but the three others – they were the ones who had attacked them out on the street. Why were they there? None of this made any sense at all.

"Oh, do stop thinking so hard, John. You're giving me a headache," Sherlock sighed, "Just trust me and relax. It's alright."

Trusting him implicitly – as he always did; ever loyal – John relaxed. That didn't stop him from glaring at the three unwelcome visitors, however, giving him a chance to really scrutinize him. The two who were obviously related looked pretty normal, save for the fact that they were armed to the teeth. But the other one, the one in the tan trench coat . . .

Something about him was wrong.

He looked completely out-of-place next to the two taller men. Actually, he almost looked like he belonged in an office cubicle what with the clothes he was wearing. He wasn't packing any sort of heat like his friends were, either. And he just stood there, his blue eyes calm and cool and his face expressionless.

John was used to the carefully-controlled, expressionless mask Sherlock put up sometimes, though, and this was nothing like that. This was true lack of expression, as if this man hardly – if ever – showed actual emotion. It sort of chilled John to the bone a bit and he quickly looked away.

"So, you were saying," Sherlock began, standing beside John with his hands clasped behind his back. " . . . Vampires, correct?"

John jolted and stared up at his friends. "I'm sorry, _what?_ I think I just misheard you."

"I assure you, John, you did not."

"Yeah, vampires." The tallest of the three said, "But I think before we delve deeper into this that introductions are in order."

His brother sighed heavily, "Sam –"

"I agree!" The Doctor said, bounding over to the tallest one happily, "I'm the Doctor, and you?"

"Uh, Sam Winchester," the tall one said, "And this is my brother, Dean, and that's –"

"I am Castiel," the trench-coat-sporting one said.

"Castiel," The Doctor repeated, "What an interesting name, Castiel." He rolled it off his tongue, as if tasting it, "Cassstiel, Caaastiel, Cas, Cassie . . . _Castiel._"

The one named Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Anyway!" The Doctor continued, "Obviously you already know our friend, Sherlock Holmes, and that's John Watson over there. He's a doctor."

"Like you?" Sam queried.

"Oh, no. He's an army doctor. Me, I'm . . . something else entirely." He glanced at Castiel, "As are you."

Castiel stiffened.

"How do you know that?" Dean demanded roughly as he reached for his gun.

The Doctor put his hands up, "Hey, hey! No need to have a conniption. I'm just sort of attuned to these kinds of things, is all. It's not my fault. I can't help it!" He turned back to Castiel, "So, those two are talking about vampires, yes? Are you somehow related?"

"No." Castiel said, his voice a bit deeper as if he was offended by the notion the Doctor had suggested. "I am nothing of the sort."

"Then what are you?"

"I am an angel of the Lord."

An uncomfortable silence ensued.

"That's quite a claim," the Doctor said softly after a few moments, "Then again I am a nine hundred year old alien from a planet that no longer exists, so I can guess you can say the same for me."

"This day just keeps on getting better and better," Dean said sarcastically.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had simply been listening. Now he stepped forward, his gaze level and calm. "Now that we're done with the introductions, though, shouldn't we get on with what you two were talking about before?" He seemed perfectly at ease with the fact that Castiel had just claimed to be an angel – John, however, was not.

"Oh, yeah," Sam said quickly, "And look, we know this is going to sound insane –"

"No more insane than aliens, Sam," Dean interrupted.

"– But you're going to have to just take our word for it." Sam continued as if Dean hadn't spoken. "Now, that case you've been working on, Sherlock, the serial murders one? Well, it's not what you think. No human committed those crimes. They were done by a vampire – a frenzied one who has lost every ounce of control it ever had."

"So basically," Dean said, "The vamp has gone into maximum bloodlust mode which makes it even crankier and high-strung than normal. Though originally I didn't think that was possible, you know? Vamps are already douche-y enough as it is."

Sam sighed.

"And . . . we're just supposed to believe you?" John said, still struggling with the fact that these men were claiming the existence of angels and vampires.

"Well you believed this guy, right? You know, with the whole alien thing?" Dean accused, pointing at the Doctor.

"He gave us proof, though." John replied.

Castiel stepped forward, "I will give you the proof you desire." He murmured.

The room began to shake then, and the lights flickered, some of them even going as far as to burst. Thunder rumbled and John saw through the window, with a terrified sort of awe, that clouds were rolling across a previously clear night sky, and somewhere outside lighting flashed, lighting up the room for just a moment; though it was enough for them to see the shadows of the wings on Castiel's back – huge and impossible and terrible.

And when the room settled and everything returned to normal John was breathing hard, gripping at the couch to make sure that he was still alive, and Sherlock had not moved an inch.

"Believe us now?" Dean quipped.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, a small, mischievous smile curling at the edge of his lips. "Yes, I believe so."

X X X

Castiel stared at the man walking beside him, the one who called himself the Doctor, as his blue eyes trailed down from the man's ruffled hair to the grin on his face, the lankiness of his body, the coat and suit ensemble he wore, and even the red converse on his feet. The inside was the most interesting, though, for this man – this Doctor – had two hearts.

_Two hearts._

"Time Lord," Castiel murmured.

The Doctor's head whipped around to face him and he blinked, "Sorry?"

"That's what you called yourself."

"Ah, yes," he smiled, "I'm a Time Lord."

"You look human . . . save for the two hearts you have in your chest."

The Doctor grinned, "Well, you look Time Lord, save for the wings you're so cleverly hiding."

Castiel fell silent at that, feeling as if there wasn't really anything else to say.

They'd left Sherlock and John's flat after explaining everything, wanting to be on their way to continue looking for the vampire responsible for all the murders. Sherlock and John had stayed behind. They – well, John, actually – said that they needed time to let everything sink in. The Doctor, however, had volunteered to go with them, and while Sam and Dean hadn't liked the idea, Castiel had insisted on it.

The Doctor intrigued him.

"So, Doc," Dean said, "You're an alien, right?"

The Doctor nodded. "I come from a different planet, and that's basically the definition of alien, isn't it?"

"I'd say so," Sam murmured, "Now, are we going to keep chatting about this, or are we going to find this son of a bitch?"

"There is just one problem with that, though," Castiel said. "We lost our one good lead. We have nowhere else to look."

"Then why don't we just run out and dare this dick to come to us, then?" Dean demanded, "I'm sick of all this duck and cover crap."

Castiel paused, a frown creasing his forehead.

"What?" Dean asked defensively, "You don't like my plan?"

"I think it's reckless."

"Reckless?" Dean echoed.

The angel gave him a look, "If you don't like reckless, I could use _insouciant_, maybe."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Get a room," Sam quipped. "I agree with Cas, though, Dean. That is not a good plan. The best thing we can do for now is lay low and try and find out as much as we can. We don't want to go running into something like this blind."

Dean sighed, "Fine, then. We'll do it your way. But if this doesn't work then we turn to my plan, alright?"

"Fine by me," Sam said.

Castiel nodded reluctantly.

"Alright, then," Dean said, feeling proud of himself. "So it's settled."

The Doctor grinned, delighted by their conversation as he shoved his hands in his pockets. This was turning out to be interesting. Very interesting indeed.


	8. Power

_"Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up."_

_- 'The Sandman, Vol 9: The Kindly Ones'_

_Neil Gaiman_

X X X

John was pacing back and forth, back and forth; the length of the room over and over again. His gray eyes were hard, filled with a rash of emotions such as fear, confusion, uncertainty, and disbelief. He was at a complete loss, Sherlock could tell with just a glance. John made it obvious. But, for some reason, John's troubled disposition made Sherlock's throat feel tight and his chest ache in a way he'd never felt before. He wanted to get up and embrace John, to tell him that it was alright, and his mind couldn't cope with that strange desire.

He didn't understand it.

So, he did what he always did, he closed his emotions off to a tiny, abandoned part of his mind and straightened in his chair, regaining his cold, machine-like composure.

"I don't see what's so hard to accept about this, John."

John stopped pacing to throw a glare at the consulting detective. "Well, Sherlock, I'm sorry if my lesser intellect doesn't permit me to accept all of this as easily as you have. I just found out that aliens and demons and angels and a whole load of other rubbish are real for fuck's sake!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the vulgar language John used. But at the same time he heard the tone in John's voice. John was upset, but not just over everything that had happened in the past few hours. It was as if the fact that Sherlock had accepted it so easily had confused him to the point of anger.

Sherlock instantly regretted how cold he'd been early.

"John," the consulting detective began, wanting to somehow apologize, but not knowing the words to use.

"Seriously, Sherlock, just shut up." John snapped as he resumed his pacing, now intermittently running his fingers through his hair.

Sherlock got the sudden urge to do the same thing to the good doctor's hair, and the strength of the sudden want had his fingers twitching with desire, despite the absurdity of the thought. He wanted to tangle his fingers in John's hair, to caress each flaxen strand, to breathe in John's scent and hold him close . . .

With a great amount of struggling, Sherlock shook the strange notion away, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. What was with these sudden compulsive urges he was having all of a sudden? They were new to him; alien. He could never remember feeling anything like this ever before, and it made him feel exposed and raw, as if had been cut open. He didn't like the feeling, but no matter what he did, he couldn't push it away. It stayed with him even as his gray-green eyes followed John across the room.

A sudden ring of the doorbell made them both jump.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called, his frustration making him shout a bit louder than he meant to.

He heard Mrs. Hudson get the door, and a muffled conversation reached his ears. Then familiar footsteps ascended the stairs and Sherlock turned, ready for the person who was coming to meet them.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said just as the Detective Inspector entered the flat. "What is it? What's happened?"

Lestrade sighed, looking troubled. "There's been another one." He murmured, "Another murder, and it's definitely the same culprit as before. The crime scene looks like a slaughterhouse."

Sherlock blinked slowly, steepling his fingers and leaning forward a bit in his chair. Finally, after a few moments of silence, he stood with a flourish and grabbed his coat, glancing back when John didn't follow him.

"John, are you coming?"

John saw the plea in Sherlock's eyes and sighed, nodding as he grabbed his coat, "Alright, fine. Just don't look at me like that."

Lestrade made a face at them. He felt sort of lost in the conversation, but he quickly shrugged the sensation off. Sherlock and John did that weird telepathic conversation thing around him all the time where they sort of just stared at each other unblinkingly, so you'd think that he'd be used to it by now.

Apparently he wasn't.

X X X

"This is where you're staying?" The Doctor glanced around the hotel room quizzically, noting the smell, the cigarette burns on the carpet, and the faded floral wallpaper and he grinned. "Wonderful!"

"I wouldn't go _that_ far." Sam said dryly.

Castiel suddenly paused and stared at them all levelly, his expression unreadable. "I do not think we should stay here."

"What? Why not? We've got all our stuff here." Dean retorted.

"Let me rephrase that," Castiel said, "I don't think we should leave John and Sherlock alone."

The Doctor nodded, suddenly serious again. "I agree. They've been working on this case with Scotland Yard, right? So who's to say that this vampire doesn't go after them?"

"You're right," Sam admitted, "Dean?"

"Oh, fine." Dean grumbled, "Grab your stuff then, Sammy, and let's go."

"I will take you." Castiel said as soon as the two had gotten their things together. He stepped forward to grab their shoulders, and Sam reached out just in time to grab the Doctor's hand. Then they were gone – not a trace left behind.

Nearly twenty miles away the four appeared just around the corner from 221b Baker Street. Dean and Sam, used to Castiel's mode of transportation as they were, didn't react much save for sharing a look that was somewhere between exasperation and acceptance. The Doctor, meanwhile, stumbled a bit on his feet and grinned widely, his eyes twinkling with wonder.

"What was _that?_" He gasped, "It was amazing! It made my skin tingle and my stomach drop – almost like a rollercoaster! Oho, can I go again?"

The corners of Castiel's mouth twitched, "Maybe later.

"It's a date, then!" The Doctor exclaimed.

Dean scowled at the comment, irritated by the Doctor's interaction with Castiel, and Sam resisted the urge to facepalm. Why was everyone around him so oblivious? It was as if they were slamming their heads into a brick wall repeatedly while chanting the words that marked their unfortunate fate; oblivious, oblivious, oblivious.

Well . . . maybe not the Doctor. Sam wasn't sure why, but he had a feeling that the Doctor knew exactly what was going on. Maybe it had something to do with the mischievous glint in his eyes. Sam had more important things to think about at the moment, however. So, shouldering their possessions they traipsed down the sidewalk and up the steps of 221b Baker Street. Sam knocked on the door, and then they waited.

The door swung open moments later to show an older woman who looked a bit flustered and Sam blinked, a bit confused since he'd been expecting John or maybe even Sherlock to answer.

"Oh – oh my," the woman murmured, "May I help you?"

"Yeah, we're here to see Sherlock." Dean said.

"Oh, yes. Come in, come in." The woman muttered. "Sherlock sure is popular today, isn't he? Go on upstairs, then. I think you just caught them as they were on their way out."

A bit perplexed, the four went up the stairs and into Sherlock and John's flat. The door was open as it always seemed to be, and inside there was an unfamiliar man in a suit and coat ensemble. He looked sort of official, and Dean wondered if he was from Scotland Yard. Behind him, Sherlock and John had donned their coats as if they were, in fact, on their way out. Upon hearing their ascent up the stairs, however, Sherlock turned, his eyes widening as he saw them all there.

"We had a bit of a problem," Castiel said by way of explanation as they entered the flat.

"Sorry for the unexpected visit, but is it alright if we crash here for a while?" Sam asked, wanting to at least try to be polite about the request.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but, thankfully, didn't ask questions. "It might be a bit crowded . . ."

"We're used to that." Sam and Dean said in unison.

The Doctor grinned.

"Who are these people, Sherlock?" The other guest in the flat, a tall man with brown eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, asked suspiciously.

"They're . . ." Sherlock paused, "Acquaintances of mine."

"I see," the man sighed, sounding resigned, "But I really need you to come with me, Sherlock. If you can just give me anything – anything at all – it will help."

Sherlock nodded, "Fine. John?"

"Coming," John said as they headed out, turning to address Sam and Dean just before he left, "You guys make yourselves at home, alright? We'll explain when we get back."

And then they were gone, and suddenly the flat felt sort of empty and hollow, almost alien without Sherlock and John there. It wasn't right. Sam wondered if John or Sherlock ever felt the same way when they were in the flat alone. Considering the way the two looked at each other, he wouldn't be surprised.

"His name is Lestrade," Castiel said suddenly, "Greg Lestrade. He's a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard."

"Oh?" The Doctor stared after them, wishing he'd gone along. He'd have liked to see Sherlock's deduction powers in action, after all he'd heard about them. He could still catch up with them, though, couldn't he? He had the TARDIS, after all. That seemed like so much work for such a little thing, though.

A sudden idea hit him.

"Cas?" He turned to the angel, "Oh, sorry, it _is_ alright for me to call you that, yes? I don't want to seem presumptuous."

Castiel nodded. "It's fine."

"Good." The Doctor smiled, "Yes, anyway, remember how you said earlier that you'd show me that wonderful relocation trick of yours again later?"

The angel tilted his head slightly to the side in a manner that must've been the closest he ever came to inquisitive, his eyes bright blue in the light. "I do."

"Well," the Doctor smirked, "It _is_ later."

X X X

This time Sherlock didn't have to say anything; John stayed by the taxi without prompting, preferring that to seeing another gruesome crime scene. He'd seen lots of death in his days back in the army, that was for sure, but it had never been anything as bad as this. And Sherlock understood . . . sort of. Nonetheless, he just let it be, as did John. And that was that.

"It's the same as the last four." Lestrade said with a great sigh, "In fact, it's so perfectly similar I want to rip my hair out at the roots. There's no new evidence at all!"

Sherlock glanced around the crime scene, his eyes narrowed. "It'll be alright, Inspector. You can trust me with this."

Lestrade sighed again, looking resigned. "I sure hope so."

_"Oi, Sherlock!"_

The consulting detective turned as he heard someone call his name and his eyes widened considerably as he saw that the Doctor-slash-alien and Castiel, the angel of the Lord, stood on the other side of the street. The Doctor was waving at him, grinning insistently, but Castiel was as unresponsive as ever, simply standing there with his hands in his pockets.

Sherlock stared.

_. . . What? How did they . . . ?_

"Hey, those two were at your flat," Lestrade said unnecessarily. "What are they doing here?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock admitted. The Doctor was already hard enough to read, but Castiel . . . he was impossible. Sherlock could never deduce anything when it came to the angel. Then again the fact that he was even more non-human than the Doctor probably had something to do with it.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes." Castiel murmured as the consulting detective approached them. Beside the angel, the Doctor was rocked back on his heels in delight; his eyes shining with a child-like fervor.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked quickly, getting right to the point.

"I'm here to see _you._" The Doctor said, "Or, more specifically, how you are in action."

Sherlock blinked, "And Castiel?"

"Ah . . . Cas just got me here."

Sherlock didn't really want to ask. He could guess at the meaning behind that rather well, after all. But he still wasn't entirely used to the idea of demons and angels and monsters being real and whatnot.

"I can't get you into the crime scene." Sherlock said, "I'm already pressing my luck by getting John in."

"Well, he's not here now, is he?"

"No, he's holding the cab."

The Doctor's eyes darkened slightly then, almost as if he could sense something Sherlock could not. "I see."

"I can cloak us." Castiel said suddenly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I'll make it seem as if we're not here." The angel clarified, "No one will know of our presence, except for you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh." Sherlock murmured, unsure what else to say.

"How does that work?" The Doctor wondered.

Without a word, Castiel lifted two fingers to the Doctor's forehead. He flinched automatically in response, but nothing seemed to happen. The Doctor and Castiel both looked the same as before. Had the angel even done anything?

"That was strange." The Doctor said then, "Sort of . . . tingly."

"Dean said it tickles."

"Yes, I'd say it does," replied the Doctor, laughing.

Sherlock frowned, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the two. From the way they spoke it seemed as if Castiel had done something after all, Sherlock just hadn't been able to notice the effects it had. Castiel _had_ said, though, that only he'd be able to know of their presence, right? So then that meant that he could see them and everyone else couldn't.

"You have a sharp mind, Sherlock Holmes." Castiel said.

"So, let's see you in action, then!" The Doctor exclaimed, following Sherlock as he headed back over to Lestrade.

"There isn't much to see," Sherlock admitted. "The crime scene is the same as the others, and I can't tell the Inspector about the . . ." He trailed off, feeling as if he shouldn't finish that sentence aloud.

"About the vampire," Castiel finished. "I can see how that would be . . . hard for him to accept."

"I do believe that's what they call and understatement, Cas." The Doctor commented.

"Yes, well," Sherlock said, attempting to guide the two back on course, "The point is that I can't deduce much else from this scene without revealing what I know – as in, who the culprit really is."

"Still," the Doctor urged as Sherlock reached Lestrade's side, "Do whatever you can."

"I am interested to see you at work as well, Sherlock Holmes." Castiel agreed.

Sherlock sighed.

"Did they leave?" Lestrade wondered, staring at the consulting detective suspiciously.

"Yes, I sent them off."

"Good." Lestrade turned back to glance at the mutilated body in front of him. "So, forensics just got back to us. The body belongs to a man named Charlie Bahr, and he happened to be a librarian – which has nothing to do with the jobs of the other victims, by the way. In fact, they have no connection whatsoever. So please, Sherlock, give me something. Anything."

Sherlock nodded. "I will do my best. I already have six ideas."

"Six?"

Sherlock nodded, glancing at the body. "No, wait. Make that five."

"So what is it this time? Something cryptic and metaphorical like before? Listen, Sherlock, just saying _teeth_ and then being all mysterious about it doesn't give me much."

Sherlock shook his head. "I still stick with my previous analysis, though. Someone or something with very large, very sharp teeth did this; perhaps one of those vampiric enthusiasts."

" . . . Vampiric enthusiasts?" Lestrade looked as if he couldn't believe his ears. Sherlock was right there with him, though. He almost couldn't believe what he was saying.

"Yes, haven't you heard?" Sherlock continued, "There are people who believe they're actually vampires and go around drinking human blood. And I _have_ heard of worse cases where mentally unstable patients have gone past 'devotion' into pure 'obsession' and have turned to murdering people and drinking their blood. That would explain why I keep getting the distinct impression of sharp teeth." He paused, "Though of course, that is only one idea."

Lestrade shuddered. "I almost wish you hadn't told me that."

"Yes, but that's all I can provide for now, Inspector." Sherlock said finally, turning to go.

"Wait, Sherlock –"

"Trust me, Inspector," Sherlock said, glancing over his shoulder to wink at him. "I know what I'm doing."

Lestrade sighed again as he watched him go, shaking his head in disbelief. Sometimes he felt as if he didn't know the consulting detective at all, despite how long they'd been acquainted. And this was one of those times. Strangely, though, as Sherlock walked off, Lestrade could've sworn that he saw the shadows of two others walking by his side, their silhouettes illuminated on the side walk for just a moment as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds.

But then the shadows were gone, and Lestrade was left convincing himself it had just been a trick of the light.


	9. Nightmare

_"It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end."_

_- Ernest Hemingway_

X X X

When Sherlock and John returned to their flat, Castiel and the Doctor in tow, it was to find Sam and Dean knee-deep in books that looked ancient enough to turn to dust should someone actually attempt to turn the pages. Sam had his nose buried in one such book, obviously concentrating on his research. Dean, however, seemed to be asleep.

Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Getting anywhere?" John asked as he shut the door behind him.

Sam sighed and set his book down, "No. In fact, all we –" he glared at Dean, "– All _I've_ found out is that this vampire's behavior isn't really anything special. See, most vampires have a bit more control over their bloodlust, but sometimes . . . sometimes they just don't have the self-restraint to be able resist." He shrugged, "So, we're basically back to square one on our list of suspects."

During Sam's rant, while Sherlock and Castiel had listened dutifully, John had gone off to make tea while the Doctor snuck up to peer at Dean over the couch, a mischievous grin on his face.

Suddenly noticing the Doctor standing over his brother, Sam frowned, his eyebrows furrowing together. "Um, Doctor, what are you doing?"

"Shh, shh, just watch." The Doctor replied, his smile stretching his lips wide. He leaned closer to Dean, to the point that their noses almost touched, and poked the eldest Winchester on the nose.

Dean's eyes flew open with a start, obviously wondering who was stupid enough to poke him while he was trying to sleep, and found himself with an eyeful of the Doctor – literally. And it took the spans of about three seconds for him to flail wildly in response as if trying to fight the Doctor off, which, in turn, caused him fall off the couch with an undignified grunt.

Sam immediately burst out laughing.

"Shut the hell up, Sam." Dean growled from where he lay sprawled on the floor. "It's not funny."

But Sam was still laughing, as was John. Even Sherlock and Castiel managed to provide small, amused smiles of their own. And the Doctor, well, he was doubled over with mirth, practically dying in the face of his own brilliance as he struggled to stay upright. Dean, meanwhile, just gave them all the evil-eye and pulled himself to his feet.

He was never going to live that down, and he knew it.

The Doctor had to admit, though, that his silly little prank had definitely been an ice-breaker. Before that the air had been tense and awkward and hard to breathe, but now the atmosphere felt a bit more welcoming, as if they were more comfortable in each other's presences. It was a good thing.

"So, vampires, they normally stay in these groups of five or more?" John asked.

Sam nodded, "Yeah. They're called nests."

"So, you're looking for the nest, then?"

"Correction," Dean said, "We were looking for the nest."

"Were?" Sherlock reiterated.

"See, that's the problem." Sam replied, "All vampires have nests. But this one we're hunting, it's like he's a loner or something."

"Cas checked," Dean interjected, "And there aren't any friggin' nests _anywhere_ in London. There are some a few towns over, but London doesn't have much to produce when it comes to the fanged community. The best bet we had was that vamp from the bar, the one you saw us kill, Sherlock. And, besides our killer, he's the only other vamp we heard tale of in this town."

"And that's unusual?"

Sam nodded. "See, from what we've heard, that particular vampire came from one of the nests a few towns over. He was just passing through here. This one we're hunting, though, he's different. He's been here too long for it to be normal. And if he had a nest, he'd have returned to it by now."

Sherlock nodded, "So, what do we do now, then?"

"The best we can do is to have Cas search for the vamp manually." Dean said.

"It has done a good job of hiding itself, however." The angel added, "So far I have had trouble pinpointing its exact location. I need time."

"Time is something we do not have much of," John said, "Not with the threat of more possible murders hanging over our heads."

"I will not let that happen." Castiel murmured, his eyes dark. "I will find him. I promise." Then, leaving those words echoing in his wake, he turned and practically disappeared into the air, the flutter of wings all that accompanied his departure.

An awkward silence followed, as if no one else was sure of what to say anymore, and after a few moments of no one meeting each other's eyes, John finally spoke up.

"So . . . is anyone else hungry?"

X X X

The flat was dark and quiet. Sherlock and John had retired early, leaving Sam and Dean to their research as Castiel hadn't returned yet. The Doctor had returned to his TARDIS, saying he had some things to check on, and that was that. The Winchesters were alone again. It wasn't long, though, before they both nodded off; Sam asleep on the couch – book perched precariously on his chest – and Dean curled up on the floor next to it.

Nothing stirred in the room. Well, that is, until Castiel appeared, his wings making no more sound than a whisper on the wind.

"I have located him." The angel said.

Sam promptly gasped in fright and fell off the couch, landing on top of Dean with a girly shriek and flailing in confusion.

"Sam -!" Dean gasped.

"What the hell are you doing, Dean!"

"_You're_ the one who fell on _me_, dumbass!"

"Like it was my fault!"

Castiel stared, unsure.

But finally, after a few moments of struggle, the two finally managed to untangle themselves and get to their feet, leaving their pride crushed on the floor in the process.

"Hey, Cas." Sam said, disgruntled.

Dean just sighed heavily.

The angel frowned at the two. "I said that I've located him; the vampire."

The two instantly became serious.

"Where is he?" Dean growled.

"I need to speak with Sherlock first." Castiel murmured, "Get John and the Doctor and bring them here." Then he disappeared quietly, only to reappear moments later in Sherlock's bedroom.

"Sherlock Holmes," Castiel said, "I need to speak to you."

Sherlock was awake instantly, hand reaching for the knife he kept nearby as he slept. But then he recognized the angel and relaxed. "Oh, Castiel . . . what is it?"

"I require permission."

"Permission?"

"To use your living room."

Sherlock frowned heavily, annoyed by the way the angel was dancing around his questions. "Castiel –"

"I need to use it as an interrogation room." Castiel said finally. "I have a guest coming."

"Is this 'guest' the vampire you've been hunting? The one who's responsible for all these murders?"

"Yes."

"Then go right ahead."

Castiel nodded. "Thank you." He turned, obviously ready to fly off again, but paused before he did and glanced back at Sherlock. "Join the others," he said, "I will be back shortly."

X X X

Sam, Dean, John, Sherlock, and the Doctor sat in the living room, silent as they waited for Castiel to return. He hadn't been gone long, but in the time he had been absent Sherlock had dressed himself in something a bit more appropriate than what he slept in – which was generally nothing at all – and John had changed as well. The Doctor apparently always wore the same suit, so he didn't have to change, and since Sam and Dean had fallen asleep in what they'd been wearing earlier, they had no need to either.

And now all that was left to do was wait.

The sudden sound of wings testified to Castiel's arrival, and then the angel was standing in their midst, holding a beaten and bloodied young man in his arms.

"Like I said," Castiel murmured, "I found him. It just wasn't under the best circumstances."

John paled. "_That's_ the murderer? But – but he's just a _kid!_"

"Vampirism is a terrible disease," Castiel replied. "It turns humans into bloodthirsty monsters, regardless of age or gender."

John did not reply, he merely stared at the young man, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I need a chair and a length of rope," Castiel said. "Strong rope; we need to make sure he does not get free, at all costs."

Sherlock got it for him, looking uncharacteristically subdued, but the angel did not notice as he deposited the young man – er, _vampire_ – in the chair and restrained him within moments, making sure the knots in the rope were tight so he would not escape.

"Sam, Dean." Castiel murmured, "Get your weapons."

Snapping out of their trances, the two brothers turned to rummage around in their duffle bags, each of them brandishing a sharpened machete, the only weapon suitable for killing vampires. But, rather than the excitement that usually came with nearing the end of a hunt, Sam and Dean felt uneasy. This was going to be hard, and they knew it.

The Doctor tensed as he saw their machetes. "What are those for?"

"Well see, Doctor, most of the lore you hear about vampires is wrong," Sam said. "They don't burst into flames in sunlight, garlic and crucifixes do nothing against them, and stakes don't kill them either."

"In fact," Dean continued, "The only way to kill them is by decapitation."

The Doctor sucked in a sharp breath, looked positively horrified. "Isn't – isn't there another way?"

"There is not." Castiel said. "The only way to reverse the vampirism only works if the human-turned-vampire in question has not ingested human blood, which he obviously has."

"Then . . ."

"Death is the only solution." Sam said softly. "I'm sorry, but we don't have any other options."

Dean nodded. "All we can do is try to get as much info from him as we can before we gank him."

And that was just about the time that the young man woke up, his eyes slowly filling with fear as he realized that he was tied down.

"Wh-what?" He gasped, "Wh-where am I . . . what's going on?"

"Hey, calm down." Sam said, "Do you remember what happened to you?"

The young man stared at him blankly a few moments before understanding, followed by horror, finally dawned on his face and he began to tremble violently, tears welling up in his icy blue eyes. "You mean . . . you mean the –"

"- The _murders,_" Dean finished, interrupting him. "The murders _you_ committed."

The young man tensed as he saw the anger in Dean's eyes. "Look, wait, I couldn't stop myself, okay! It wasn't my fault. Someone – someone must've slipped something in my drink, and it made me into this – this bloodthirsty, murderous, _abomination_." He began to sob brokenly, "I couldn't help myself!"

"Despite your intentions, you're now a danger to yourself and everyone around you. There's no way we can allow you to keep living." Sam said in a near whisper.

The young man hung his head, shoulders shaking with sobs. However after a few moments he raised his head again, tears still streaming down his face, but his eyes were different now. Before where they'd been alight with fear and life now they were blank; dead and uncaring.

"Then k-kill me . . ." The young man gasped. "Please, just do it quickly."

The Doctor looked horrified.

"I don't want to hurt any more people," the young man begged, "So kill me, _please_."

Dean stepped forward, the hand in which he held his machete hanging loosely at his side. "One last thing, what's your name, kid?"

The young man sucked in a deep breath, letting his shoulders slump in defeat as he did. "Connor," he murmured finally. "My name is Connor."

Dean nodded, "Alright. Close your eyes, Connor. I promise, this'll be over quickly."

Connor swallowed hard and did as he was told, letting his eyes flutter shut as he tilted his bead back. In response Dean stepped closer and raised his machete, eyes as hard and unfeeling as Connor's had been just moments before.

"Don't -!" The Doctor tried, stepping forward, but Sam intercepted and held him back.

John, not wanting to see, turned his head away, and even Sherlock lowered his gaze. Castiel, however, watched the scene calmly, his eyes unblinking and steady as ever.

_Crunch._

And then, just like that, it was all over.

X X X

After cleaning up the mess and disposing of the body, Castiel returned to the flat at 221b Baker Street, noting the depressed atmosphere that hung over the place the moment he stepped foot in the living room. It was an emotion that was still sort of alien to him, though – depression, that is – and he wondered if he'd missed something. They'd finished a hunt victoriously; they'd won. Why was there reason for everyone to be depressed?

"We won today." Castiel stated to the rest of the room's inhabitants, confused.

The Doctor threw a hard look his way. "I'm sorry, Cas. But this doesn't exactly feel like a victory to me."

"Maybe not a victory per se," Sam murmured, taking the liberty of replying for the confused angel. "But think of all the people we saved by stopping Connor, Doctor. And see, sometimes – especially in this line of work – you have to focus on the good things, no matter how small they are."

"Either that or you can just go insane with guilt," Dean interjected. "And I don't know about you, but I'd rather choose the former option, thank you."

"Still . . ." The Doctor murmured, his voice nearly a whisper.

Castiel put a hand on his shoulder, offering him a small smile. "Trust me, Doctor. It gets easier. It does."

The Doctor nodded. "All things do, in the end, I suppose."


	10. Victory

**So, yes. This is the end. The finale. I had a lot of fun with this story, and thank you all for the reviews and simply for reading it! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did ^^**_  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>"Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me - anything can happen, child. Anything can be."<em>

_- Shel Silverstein_

X X X

There was a sort of gladness in their parting, in knowing that the threat of murder was gone – even though Sherlock wasn't _entirely_ happy about the case being over and done. But there was also sadness there too, for they'd become more than acquaintances in the days they'd worked together. They'd become friends.

And – inevitably – friends are always sad when they have to go their separate ways.

"I'll make sure to visit every once in a while." The Doctor promised, flashing them his signature goofy grin.

Sherlock shook his hand. "Thank you, Doctor." He said, offering him a hesitant almost-smile that just barely twitched at the corners of his lips.

The Time Lord nodded, barely keeping back his own gigantic grin, "To you as well."

Next, Sherlock and John said goodbye Sam, Dean and Castiel. The three were hitching a ride back to the US with the Doctor in order to cut spending half of their paycheck on airline tickets, but they lingered so Sherlock could make sure they'd visit occasionally as well.

"Of course we'll visit, Sherly!" Dean exclaimed, laughing when Sherlock grimaced at the use of his pet name – the one usually only his older brother, Mycroft, used.

Castiel shook John's hand, giving him a solemn farewell. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

John nodded, still a bit awed about meeting an angel, "You too."

In truth they would've stayed there forever if they could've, suspended in time so their paths could stay overlapped. But they each had lives and people to return to you, and they couldn't stay. So finally they said their final goodbyes, and Team Free Will loaded up into the TARDIS with the Doctor right behind them.

"Don't wait twenty three years to visit again this time!" John called in their wake.

"Yes, sir!" The Doctor replied laughingly. And then the doors closed and suddenly the only people – besides John – that Sherlock had ever really considered true friends were gone, and the flat at 221b Baker Street was quiet once more.

"What now?" John asked in the silence that ensued.

Sherlock turned to him and, despite the apparent calm on his face, inside he was a chaotic whirlwind of emotion and uncertainty. His heart was beating at three times its normal speed, and he felt breathless with the sudden realization of what he was about to say. _Weightless._ "We're alone," the consulting detective murmured, stating the obvious.

John gave him an odd look. "Yeah, uh, are you okay, Sherlock?"

"I'm better than I have been in a while."

"_What?_"

Sherlock stepped closer, taking John's hand in his and squeezing it – _hard_ – as if he believed that the action would give him strength. "This gives us a chance to talk. Because, John, there are _many_ things we need to talk about."

John was feeling nervous now. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "Is there something you want to tell me, John?"

John stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. But Sherlock said nothing and just stood there, smiling back at him and teasing him with those high cheekbones, those clear gray-green eyes with just a hint of blue, that curly hair that was just _begging_ for him to run his fingers through it and tug. John stared, mouth going dry, and desperately latched onto whatever Sherlock was aiming at, hoping his own assumptions were right.

Grabbing the consulting detective by the lapels, John slammed him against the wall and crushed their lips together, pouring all the frustration and loyalty and love he'd held pent up inside for the last few months into that one kiss.

And when they finally pulled apart, faces flushed and breathing hard, Sherlock smiled in a way that John had never seen before, one that made his eyes twinkle.

"I knew you had something to tell me." He said cheekily.

X X X

_Sioux Falls, South Dakota . . ._

Bobby was sprawled on the floor of his living room, eyes wide and tattered baseball hap lying askew on his head as he stared at the blue box materializing in his living room out of thin air because, seriously, Bobby Singer had seen some weird things in his life time, but this definitely took the gold.

But when Sam, Dean, and Castiel stepped out of the box moments later, waving goodbye to whomever else was inside of it, Bobby rolled his eyes and pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the fact that the blue box had disappeared again.

"Shoulda known that it'd be you idjits," he grumbled. "What kind of crazy people are you runnin' around with these days?"

"Time Lords." Castiel said.

"Aliens." Dean clarified.

"It's a long story." Sam added.

Bobby blinked at them in turn and then sighed, grabbing a half-full liquor bottle from the desk and two glasses. "Why don't you join me then, Sam, and tell me all about it? I've got time."

"What about us?" Dean asked, motioning to himself and Castiel.

Bobby glanced at them. "I can tell you guys have some things to talk about." He said, winking in that knowing way of his. Then he and Sam traipsed off to the back porch to talk, and Dean glanced at Castiel, feeling uncomfortable.

"Bobby is especially intuitive," Castiel said after a few moments of awkward silence. "How did he know I wanted to talk to you alone?"

"He's got that whole father-instinct thing going on." Dean said, "He always did treat us like we were his actual kids."

Castiel nodded, looking distracted.

Dean shifted nervously. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

The angel hesitated. "I . . . I don't know how to phrase it." And, for the first time in a long time, Castiel looked – uncertain.

". . . Cas?" Dean ventured. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Dean. I just – don't know how to say this."

"Just say it, then. Blurt out whatever comes to mind. That's usually the easiest way to do it when you're at a loss for words."

"_Iloveyou_." Castiel said in a rush.

Dean went very still, wondering if he'd heard the angel right. "What?"

"I – I love you."

Dean stared at him, eyes wide, jaw slack, and stutters. "Wait, I – I don't . . . _what?_"

Castiel huffed impatiently and leaned forward, "Just let me show you." He murmured, and then the angel's lips were on his, gentle and compliant and feather-soft, just as Dean had dreamed they'd be. And – he admitted to himself – he dreamed about Castiel's lips a lot. But more than that, he dreamed about Cas _himself_ a lot. And before he'd just pushed it to the back of his mind, told himself he didn't swing that way, but now . . . now he wasn't so sure.

And when Castiel pulled back Dean was smiling.

"What?" The angel murmured, his violent blue eyes looking almost scared.

Wanting to erase any doubt Castiel had that Dean returned his feelings, the hunter pulled his angel into a crushing embrace, holding him close so he'd never have to let go. And then, barely above a whisper, he murmured _"I think I understand now."_

And Castiel knew then that Dean loved him back.

X X X

The Doctor stood in the TARDIS, listening to the way it hummed, pulsing with the beat of the universe around it. There was peace here, and the Doctor liked that. What he had a hard time getting past, though, was the solitude. Peace he could handle, silence he could handle.

Loneliness . . . not so much.

He'd gotten so used to having a companion. During this regeneration alone he'd had three different ones, Rose, Martha, and Donna. And now, with the TARDIS empty save for him, he realized that he'd forgotten what it was like to be by himself. He'd been travelling alone for a long time before he met Rose, and for a while he'd liked it better that way.

But now . . . now he was lonely.

My lonely angel, Madame de Pompadour had called him once. And she'd been right. All the friends he'd made, all the places he'd been, all the people he saved, it all seemed for naught during the time he was standing there inside the TARDIS, alone with only his thoughts.

But then he'd think back to the new friends he'd made – the Winchester boys, the angel Castiel (who was particularly interesting), the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, and his best friend John Watson – and suddenly he didn't feel so lonely anymore, especially with their invitation for him to visit whenever he wanted echoing in his mind. And then the Doctor smiled, because maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

Maybe this story had a happy ending for once.

THE END.


End file.
